deceptions somehow, and led them on that courageous attack up the ravine. The other old men concurred. The tall stranger was definitely a man to have on your side in a fight, and not just because he carried those remarkable blades.
All conversation around the hearth circle died abruptly as the two pale strangers appeared, the ones with the painted men's powers. The golden-haired one exchanged a few words with the tall stranger before bending down to gather up an armful of the pieces of hide. As the tall man spoke briefly to the red stranger with the curious leg, the golden-haired one jerked her head back towards the painted man's hut and the two of them walked away. The tall stranger watched them go, exchanging a few words with his woman. She bent to help him sort through the remaining hides, her face drawn and tired.
The white-haired old man ventured his opinion that the tall stranger must also have the powers of a painted man, for the red stranger and the golden one both deferred to him. When did a painted man bow his head to anyone but a more powerful rival?
All eyes turned to the old woman again, so she told them she had seen no sign of the tall stranger using any painted man's powers. Yet, she freely admitted, he certainly seemed to be the leader of the four strangers.
The white-haired old man spoke over her, still insisting that the tall stranger must be a painted man. And his woman had such powers too, most likely. Apprehension deepened the creases in his aged face. Painted men only ever cooperated with each other. No wonder none of the strangers had shown any fear of the black beast. If they were going to attack the painted man across the river, perhaps it was so they could feed him to the black beast, like the feathered woman, and win its favour that way.
Everyone fell silent. As the maiden returned and
carried the gourds from the edge of the fire with hide-draped hands, no one spoke apart from offering the briefest thanks. She looked around the circle, concerned, but knew better than to ask. The wrinkled sisters and the white-haired old man let the old woman dip her hand into the gourd they were sharing between them. She fished out a hot slippery piece of intestine and ate it hungrily, waiting humbly to be offered the gourd again before taking another piece. Once all the offal was eaten, the white-haired old man seized the gourd and slurped at the ripe-smelling broth of the lizard's innards, stomach contents and bone marrow.
On the far side of the hearth, the scarred hunter was smiling ingratiatingly at the tall stranger, gesturing to the lizard meat cooking over the fire. The tall stranger took a whole branch heavy with meat away from the flames and drew his smallest lightning blade. The village women shared glances to reassure themselves there would still be plenty of meat for their children, even if the stranger was claiming such an unexpectedly large share.
The white-haired old man started saying something but then fell silent, his broth-stained mouth hanging open. The tall stranger wasn't keeping all the meat for himself. Instead he sliced it with his lightning knife and offered it all around, first to his woman and then to the other pale strangers who had now returned empty-handed from the painted man's hut. The white-haired man recovered himself sufficiently to argue this made his point for him. A painted man would only share his meat with others of his kind. Painted men would certainly only take orders to fetch and carry from another painted man.
Then the tall stranger took another lump of meat and cut a portion, which he offered to the scarred hunter on the point of his blade. The hunter squared his shoulders and took the meat with a shaking hand. As he stepped
back to tear into it with his white teeth, the tall stranger offered a portion to the next hunter. The others promptly stepped forward. The circle of elders watched, mystified, as the tall stranger proceeded to cut up and apportion all the lizard meat. He continued until everyone had been fed. Even the smallest and weakest of the children got a share.
From the wonder on some of their little faces, the old woman guessed it was the first time they had tasted anything but offal. She almost wished she still had the teeth to manage meat like that. But at least she had a full belly. The second of the wrinkled sisters handed her the gourd and she drained the remaining pungent broth.
The scarred hunter walked around the hearth and sat down beside the white-haired old man. The old woman enviously noted the family resemblance that so safeguarded the old man. The hunter was watching the tall stranger, who was now sitting with his woman and the two pale strangers. The white-haired old man began telling his son her tale of seeing them on their strange raft on the sunrise coast.
The scarred hunter asked her bluntly what else she knew of these strangers. She repeated her tale of the waterspout that had lured away the water beast. The white-haired old man barely let her finish before insisting once again that all four strangers must be painted men, his voice rising.
The old woman looked down at the empty gourd. Well, if she was to die tonight, it would be with a full belly and warmth in her weary bones. So she told them about the painted cave. She slid over the dangerous truth that it was she who had led them to it, saying instead that they had seemingly stumbled upon it while she was merely following them. Though she admitted they had deliberately raised a path across the river for her. She assured the scarred hunter that the strangers had insisted she go inside the
painted cave, mutely beseeching him not to kill her out of hand for profaning it.
He nodded reassurance. After all, who among them would dare refuse a painted man's order?
After that, it cost her nothing to admit she had been following the strangers out of fear of being captured and handed over to the local painted man, whoever he might be. Every wrinkled, toothless face showed that these elders understood such fears. What mystified them all was the old woman's insistence that the strangers had known nothing of such caves, that they had first marvelled at the paintings and then simply ignored them.
The hunter turned to his white-haired father and pointed out that none of the strangers were in fact painted in any way. For all their strange garb, none wore feathers or shells or bones or any of the signifiers anyone with the least pretensions to power adopted. The tall stranger's demeanour in the battle and now around the fire had convinced him that the man was a hunter among his own people, and one of great stature if he was accustomed to sharing meat so lavishly.
The white-haired old man shook his head, his face oddly troubled as he reminded them all that the tallest stranger wore something wrought of the same stuff as his knives and some kind of scale or shell around his neck. However strange their customs in whatever strange land they had come from, these were all still painted men as far as he could see. Only painted men could protect the unpainted from the beasts. He restated his conviction that it was simply the custom of these strangers only to feed their less powerful rivals to the beasts.
The scarred hunter had no answer to this. He stared into the fire, eloquent in his frustration at being unable to understand a word the tall stranger said.
The old man with the clouded eyes spoke up with a new
concern. Surely they were all agreed that these strangers offered more protection for the village at less cost in lives and even in lizard meat than the painted man with the skull mask and his feather-crowned women. That could only be a good thing. But there were those among them who had not yet dared to claim paint or feathers as earnest of their abilities. They would see the tall stranger's forbearance as weakness, and sooner or later would contemplate challenging the red stranger or the golden one. If these strangers were taken unawares by some attack, if their customs for such challenges were different, disaster might befall them and thus the rest of the village. None of those who wished them well would be able to warn them, not given that no one knew any common tongue with them.